In Life, In Death
by Formless
Summary: He loved her dearly, tenderly, passionately, with all his heart in life. What more in her death? The tragic love of Bishamon and Sara.


Hello. It's been a while since I've updated a story. I regret to say that my past stories are all discontinued as I have no longer have the luxury of time to continue them. I can only write from time to time now. To the readers, I apologize greatly and thank you for your support and love.

Lately, I've been reading Zone-00 and I'm having a lot of feels for this pairing. I hope you like it.

**Warning: Mature themes and spoilers. Reader discretion is highly advised.**

* * *

Running. Within seconds he was running.

_Sara. Sara!_

He was almost flying now, golden wings unfurling in the dead of the night. Geta pounding, heart racing and feathers fluttering, he hurried to make it to her. His lover, Sara. He silently prayed that he'd make it on time.

His face was full of horror and terror as soon as he saw the state of his beloved mistress. Her ebony tresses were sprawled out on the floor, her snowy garments stained with crimson, eyes closed and her entire body as still as stone. Falling on his knees, he cried out in loss and agony as he cradled her closer to his chest. He lamented her name, rocking her gently back and forth.

There was nothing else he could do but mourn. It was quite ironic that he—Akio the Seraph, the yatagarasu that creaturekind looked up to, powerful and righteous, feared and revered—such a creature like him would be unable to protect his mistress.

What, then? Of what use were these Hands of God, these golden eyes, his skill of wind, his glorious wings, all of these if he didn't have _her_? It dawned on him that he failed, he failed to keep the contract, to protect this woman he loved for centuries. He only had the Shirayuri house to blame for her unfortunate demise.

Grief turned into panic as soon as the edges of his vision started to darken, and the weight on his back was slowly dissipating. He panicked, dropping his lover's body to the wooden floor in utter shock. He slapped a hand over his eyes as a futile effort to stop the darkness that slowly ate away the colors.

* * *

_The Law of Salome, the Fated Woman_

_This is the punishment for any familiar who fails to defend his mistress and survives her._

_If he is a beast, he shall lose his fangs. If a bird, his wings._

_The sword he lifted to protect that woman shall be stripped from him._

_The eyes which he gazed upon her shall be crushed._

_The meaning is this: his failure brings about his death as a knight._

_The way of escaping this fate is..._

_...to commit a grave taboo and partake of the dead witch's flesh._

* * *

His vision was half-gone when he instinctively reached for her body. Tearing laced fabric apart, he immediately broke off a piece of cold, hardened flesh and threw it into his awaiting mouth. The flesh reeked of the metallic smell of blood, tasted horribly old and he felt like he was about to gag. He shook it off, reaching for more and swallowing the pieces with hearty gulps. He ate whatever piece was left of her—her curved shoulders, those plump arms, taut breasts and supple thighs. He devoured her blindly, until he could no longer bear the terrible smell and taste.

By the time he was done, he felt the weight of his twelve wings on his back again. His sight did not return, however, but for that he was thankful. Even he could not bear to see the fruits of the grave taboo he just committed.

He struggled to rear himself to stand. Using the bamboo furniture as a guide, he groped his way out of the house and wandered to the balcony where he often spent the cool summer nights. He looked up, trying, trying to find that ray of light, that Morning Star, the little twinkle that aroused his euphoria and illuminated the gloom of his world.

His Venus.

But he could no longer catch a refreshing drop of starlight in his clouded eyes. He knew himself that he was at a great loss. He had lost his eyesight, he almost lost his wings and above all, he lost his great love.

"Sara..." He tried to murmur. The way he spoke her name was different now. His voice was indifferent with tones of pity least shed, unlike the way her name choked into broken syllables caught in the hollow of his throat.

Briefly, he thought of _her_. His greatest triumph, the woman he took pride in serving. Her dark eyes that sparkle in delight, her gentle caress that soothed his aching soul, that soft voice that called his name, her slender and delicate hands that held him, her beautiful body that answered his every question and responded equally with his longing—he faintly remembered them all.

The image of her burned itself deeply in the back of his mind, with no intention of disappearing anytime soon. He could still smell the musky, earthen scents that came off her skin, he could feel her warmth under his palms, he could still hear the slight echoes of her alluring voice.

_"Akio, oh Akio, I love you so..."_

He thought, what if Sara was alive? Would she let him devour her in her last moments, just to save his life? Would he be able to protect her?

He let out a long sigh. For now, he had to bury her corpse discreetly, in a place where young Benten would never find. Truly, the young yatagarasu would not accept his heinous act to conplete such a selfish purpose. The blue-eyed blonde could only take so much grief.

Sara. The witch he used to serve, the woman he once loved. His feelings for her - made stronger by centuries—was no more. He should be grieving for his loss, punishing himself for his failure as a familiar, or sadly content that the last thing his golden eyes saw was her, but none of those thoughts entered his mind.


End file.
